


Aftermath

by Equuleus



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Backstory, Blood and Gore, Death, Gen, Limb loss, Swearing, Violence, Young Junkrat, becoming junkrat, criminal activity, we gonna have some angst sometime soon too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-24 17:13:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7516448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Equuleus/pseuds/Equuleus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While radiation spreads across the Outback, one young boy tries his best to survive in the junker world as he slowly goes insane.</p><p>Follows the terrors (and some shenanigans) of young Junkrat in the Outback up until he meets Roadhog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Loss

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote like 5 chapters of random backstory for Junkrat cause I wanted some and was sick all weekend and basically threw out 2 that I might bring back later but basically I just liked how it turned out and wanted to share. I have no idea how long this will end up being but I'm hoping around at least 8 chapters. Hope you enjoy it!!

**Twelve years had passed since the omnium center was destroyed.**

He had been alone for three years. He no longer had his mother to protect him, to hold him, to comfort him. He no longer had his father to fight for him, to inspire him, to give him strength. It was just… him.

He was fifteen now, his blonde hair thick and spiky, and very often on fire. His eyebrows were bushier than the tumbleweeds found outside. He was growing to towering heights, passing the six foot mark. His skin was almost always covered in dirt and soot; he hadn't bathed in years. His name was Jamison Fawkes, and he was a junker in the Australian Outback, hell-bent on revenge for both of his parents. He was determined to kill the gang of junkers that murdered his mother and destroy any omnics that came across his path to avenge his father.

Twelve years of radiation really messes with someone. Though Jamison was near the outskirts of the radiation for the past two years, he was in the initial zone for ten years. His mind had short-circuited in some ways and caused him to go crazy. He fell in love with explosions and their destruction. The air being blown back, the dirt and scrap flying in every direction, the rush of adrenaline as the bomb went off. It was exhilarating.

However, his love for explosives had gone a bit too far too fast. He was constantly collecting scrap, anything useful he came by, and developing new grenades and mines. His most recent invention was a grenade launcher, and he was ecstatic to test it out.

He stepped out of his recently captured trailer home and held the weapon in his right hand. A toothy grin spread across his face and his shoulders shook in excitement. He giggled and faced the open Outback.

He had left most of his other explosives and guns in the trailer in case of an explosive failure. He may have crazy, but he wasn’t stupid. Or at least that's what he thought.

“Fire in the hole!” He yelled as he cocked the launcher and pulled the trigger.

It exploded in his hand. All he could see was smoke and soot, but he felt a searing pain shoot through his body as he fell to the ground.

He couldn’t feel his arm. Why couldn’t he feel his arm? It felt like his right arm was gone. He started to panic and tried moving it, but he couldn’t. His head started to spin a bit as he felt his back become wet and warm.

_Shit shit shit shit shit. That’s blood. Bloody hell. Please be there._

He lifted his head and stared at where his lower arm used to be. It was mostly gone up to his elbow, only pieces of skin and tissue hanging there. He let out a scream in pain and shock. He desperately tried to grab his now non-existent arm with his left, his eyes widening as he realized that it was truly gone.

_No. No no no no no no. It can't be gone! I'm gonna die! … I gotta get to the trailer..._

Jamison was only a few feet from his temporary trailer home, but those few feet were the most agonizing minutes of his young life. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he dragged himself forward with his remaining arm, letting out squeals of pain. The stub of his right arm dragged across the dry dirt, collecting it in his wounds and only increasing the pain. He reached for the doorknob and pulled himself up to his feet.

As he hobbled into the trailer, tripping over himself and blood dripping all over, he reached for his backpack in the corner. His red backpack, one his mother had stolen for him when he was only six, was one of the last mementos left of his parents. He fished around until he felt the plastic of a water bottle.

Water was rare. Clean water was a myth. The only way to get water was to find a watering hole that wasn't already controlled by a gang or trade a luxury good for it. He had received his most recent two bottles by trading cans of beans he had found while scavenging. This was the last he had- barely half a bottle.

He poured it all on his arm, ignoring the scratches that covered his legs and upper body. He howled in pain and stomped his feet and banged his head on the ground. “Shit!”

_Bloody hell, I'm gonna die here, ain't I?_

He knew next to nothing about first aid, and this was much more extreme than just first aid. All he'd ever had to do before was wash out the wound and then wait for his mother to do the rest. He had really taken her for granted.

He guessed that the next thing to do would be to bandage it up, but had no idea where to find bandages. He rolled over to his front again and looked around frantically. Jamison knew he had to find something before he passed out, or he'd surely be dead.

He saw nothing that resembled bandages, but then he remembered. There were spare clothes in his bloodstained backpack. He weakly grabbed and tipped down the backpack to face him and dug through it, continuing to let out small squeals every few seconds.

His fingers grasped the t-shirt that he had pulled out and he bit down on the other side. He ripped the cloth into a couple of strands and began to wrap them tightly around the stub that was once his right arm.

Every movement of his body, every time anything touched his right arm, pain bolted up through his body. He was screaming, crying, bawling.

Once all bandaged up, he dragged himself slowly across the trailer to the torn up, moth-eaten couch and pulled himself up. He didn't know if he was safe. He didn't know if he would live through the next few hours or days. All he knew is that he was in bloody damn terrible pain.

By the time he woke up the next day, the pain had not receded one bit, but blood and tears soaked his shirt and his arm was still gone.


	2. New Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is short and kinda not the best, I completely felt dead all week and only had the motivation to write this certain chapter at 2 am. I have a few more already written, but this one was never finished until now. Hope you enjoy!

He endured the pain for days, jittering and shaking and itching to do something besides lie there. He talked to himself constantly, trying to keep himself out of boredom’s grasp. He had been there two days, attempting to get up and adventure, but always retreated back to the uncomfortable couch to wallow in pain. It always started at the stub of his arm and crawled up to his spine, spreading up to his neck and down into his legs. His head felt as if it were about to split.

It was it. Jamison wasn’t going to take it anymore. He could handle pain- he’s done it before- even if it was worse than ever before.

“C’mon, Jamie, get up,” he whimpered to himself, patting his leg with his remaining arm. “Jus’ ignore the pain!”

He pushed himself up and turned, placing his legs one the floor and standing up slowly. The pain began again, crawling under his skin. He winced and his shoulders shook, but he was determined to move.

He went on a search for food and water in the trailer home. When he had first discovered it, he was so excited to have a safe place that he just started on his work right away. He hadn’t checked for supplies yet, and he was running dangerously low. He only had a slab of dried meat left and no water at all.

He fought through his discomfort and checked every cupboard, every bag, every suitcase that was in the trailer. He found four cans of oranges, though two were cracked open and probably contaminated. He didn’t care; food was food In a bag near the back, he found two large canisters that he could barely drag across the floor with his single arm.

“Oi, what’s in here?” Jamison asked himself, excited. He pried open the top of one of the canisters and let out an excited squeal. He wasn’t going to die of thirst. The canisters were full of water. Though muddy, it was water. He smiled for the first time in days and drank away.

____

“I think that’s it!” He yelled out as he stuck the final bolt into his new contraption. A wild smirk crossed his face and he pulled the straps over his shoulder and fit his creation onto his right arm just below the elbow. It fit well. His arm was finally complete with the new prosthetic installed, it just had to be tested.

It had been weeks since the accident. It still haunted him, especially when he was alone with his thoughts. However, he found the strength to journey out of the trailer, grenades in his pockets and a pistol in hand. He had remembered of a nearby town and went to adventure.

Jamison was lucky. He had seemed to get a streak of good luck. Not only did he have enough water to last a month, but he raided a few houses and found food to last at least two weeks.

He had been testing out mechanics for his new arm during these few weeks. After the first arm being a complete failure, there was an incident. He had trashed the trailer from throwing a tantrum, tears falling from his face, violent screams escaping his mouths, objects being thrown about the room. He smashed up the prototype before passing out soon afterwards.

It was his seventh test. His fourth arm. He wanted it to work. No, he needed it to work. He was going insane, more insane than he already was. He couldn’t handle being locked up in that trailer any longer, but he was smart enough to stay while disabled.

“C’mon Jamie, make it work,” he hummed to himself while he closed his eyes and tried to control his right arm again. When his eyes reopened, he saw new mechanic fingers moving up and down. He let out a wild screech and nearly bounced off the walls in joy, for he had his arm back.

He left that stinky old trailer without a trace. Well, he erased all the traces left behind by, of course, blowing up the whole thing. Jamison had walked away from that hell hole that had confined him and tortured him for weeks. He walked away feeling free and ready to take on the world.

“You won’t get rid of me that easy,” he yelled out into the sky, before jumping forward and running off into the Outback.


	3. A Rat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had a completely different plot for this chapter originally. But motivation came to me while I was at work so I wrote. It's a little unorganized but I still think it's okay. The next chapter should have some fun in it too! Anyways, hope you enjoy!

**Fourteen years had passed since the omnium center was destroyed.**

He was seventeen now, his blonde hair falling down the sides of his face. He often held it back with a band into a small ponytail. His skin was a hue of light brown from the dirt and soot that he lived in. He had ditched wearing a shirt, for the Outback was only getting hotter. There was no need to wear one anymore. His pants were torn, but they were all he had.

In the two years since the incident, he had developed a new grenade launcher. Though he had blown up his arm with his initial prototype, he tested the new design with excitement. When it seemed to work, a tremendous smile appeared on his face and he jumped up and down, cheering for himself.

Jamison thought he had finally found a living. He had become a scavenger in Junkertown, a disgusting and despicable pile of scrap in the radiation zone. He had called it home for the past eighteen months, and loved it. There were no rules, no laws, nothing to hold him back.

But there also was a community. There were people. No matter how much he hated working with others and how dangerous everyone actually was, it made him feel safe. Some taught him how to work better with scrap. Some sold him food. One even did repairs on his arm. The people of Junkertown were his friends, or at least that’s what he thought.

As a scavenger, he often would have to head to scrapyards and abandoned buildings to find valuables- whether it was scrap, clothes, food, or weapons. He’d bring anything that he found (minus the bits and parts that’d he steal for his own inventions) to a vendor, who would trade food and water for the valuables.

He lived on the streets of Junkertown. He found himself to be insanely lucky if he found actual shelter for the night. Most of the time, he would sleep right outside of town underneath a large piece of metal.

However, he spent most of his time in the scrapyards, stealing scrap for his creations. He’d scurry back to his makeshift shelter and work for hours straight. His hands would grow sore, his fingers raw, his arms would ache. But he was so intent on his work that he would work sometimes until the sun rose again on the next day.

The people of Junkertown saw him a nuisance. He was a thief, a brigand, a no good junker just looking to mooch off somebody. While most of the people in the scrap-town were even worse, they were put off by Jamison’s odd obsession with explosives. Yes, he stole from and cheated people, but they had never seen anyone _that_ obsessed with explosives.

Everyone in town had something that defined them. Jamison’s was his explosive habits: blowing up scrap heaps, planting mines out by the scrapyards, tossing grenades at unsuspecting lizards. The explosions were exhilarating, filling him with happiness and excitement.

Luckily, his love for explosives made him a great scavenger. He always need new parts to build, to create. His explosives were able to dislodge parts from large structures and topple buildings in the matter of seconds. His brain was able to sort through problems quickly and assess the situation to make the perfect explosive device.

Though he was a scavenger, it was still difficult to find a sufficient amount of water and food to live. He resorted to snitching from the other homeless junkers, which often caused fights. He had been caught in a gang fight before, but escaped by causing the destruction of their camp. Frags always came in handy.

On this particular day, he was deep into a project when he heard a long, low growl. He jumped for his frag launcher and held it up, ready to kill.

“C’mon out, ya bastard!” He yelled. No response. The growl came again, but louder this time. Jamison let out a chuckle and patted his tummy, realizing that the growl was coing from him. “Oi, forgot to eat again, better do that.”

He crawled under his makeshift shelter and pushed around the multiple cans and torn up bags, looking for a sign of something edible. Nothing. All he had was tin and burlap, and he hadn’t sunk low enough to eat that yet.

He crawled back out and began to jog into the streets of Junkertown. He soon reached the Junktion, a plaza full of various shops and stalls.

“G’day mates,” he said to the many vendors, waving at most of them with a smile. He only received glares back.

He slipped his hands in his pockets and walked through the stalls littering the plaza. He slid into an alleyway and in through a back door to a shop.

There was dust everywhere in this backroom, covering small scraps of metal and wood. Light seeped into the room through a hole in the roof, illuminating a hallway to another few roos.

He quietly stepped down the hall and opened the first door he saw, finding a storage room. “Jackpot,” he whispered to himself. He bent down and began grabbing every item in his reach and stuffing them in his pockets.

As he stood back up to get the hell out of there, he stumbled and fell, sending cans and boxes and scrap flying everywhere. He heard footsteps rushing down the hallway as he scrambled back up. He picked up anything he could and stuffed his pockets once again.

The door slammed open and Jamison sprinted down the hall. He barely made it out the door before he heard a gunshot. Looking behind him, he saw an old lady with fire in her eyes and a shotgun in her hands.

“Get outta here ya rat! And don’t ya come back either!” She yelled after him.

_Am I really a rat?_

He turned and scurried through the streets, scrap and cans clacking in his pockets.

_I am a rat._


End file.
